


He Lives In You

by hips_of_steel



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, reflections, title shamelessly stolen from the lion king song i was listening to while writing this, word art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-18 09:16:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15482559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hips_of_steel/pseuds/hips_of_steel
Summary: WaitThere's no mountain too greatHear these words and have faithWhoa whoa whoa-ohHave faith~Rafiki, He Lives In You (Reprise), The Lion KingChristopher goes to reconnect with the land that is as much as part of him as he is of it.





	He Lives In You

**Author's Note:**

> Giving credit where it's due!
> 
> My OCs  
> Christopher: Nyo Oregon/Eastern Oregon  
> Beverly: APH Oregon/Western Oregon
> 
> crikadelic's OCs  
> Rosa: Nyo Texas
> 
> For the convenience of those who read these notes, Hinmatóowyalahtq̓it is the actual name of Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce, as that is not entirely clear. I chose to use this name as Christopher is supposed to be speaking in Nez Perce (Niimi'ipuutímt) throughout this story.
> 
> ADDITIONALLY, RECOMMENDED LISTENING WHILE YOU READ IS THE SONG I'VE TAKEN THE TITLE FROM  
> YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GqyE7GiRJ4  
> Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/13ZxF2d4gzN0Qnhr8gRkWe?si=Bj35OUCNTjGFEAb2o7wWRw

Christopher stands there quietly as the sun sets in the land he has always known as his home. There's quiet on this summer night, a breeze whispering through the land. The Wallowas stand tall around him, and in the distance the whispers of the Snake River creep through the soil.

He sits firmly on the ground, nothing separating him from the earth. It’s been a long time since he’s worn anything other than cowboy boots, but the moccasins felt right today. He needs to reestablish his connection here.

So he slowly sets his hands down on the ground, and spreads out his fingers, until his palms are resting completely on the soil of the earth.

He clears his mind as best he can, closing his eyes, and then quietly begins to sing. It’s the language he was born speaking, Niimi'ipuutímt. The gift the land gave him, as well as entrusting him to the care of the Nimiipuu. One of the few things it has ever given him out of kindness, rather than need or demand.

He hears his voice taper off distantly, and then a stronger wind rises behind him, speaking in many languages. But the strongest voices come from the oldest ones, the languages this land has always known. Then comes the strongest voice, neither male nor female, speaking quietly, yet above all the others.

_“What is it?”_

Christopher says nothing at first, and so he feels the voice flow through him. It’s a sensation he’s used too, and he says nothing as it inspects him.

_“Child of the land, you are far from what you now call home.”_

_“All of this is my home, my strength, my body.”_ He responds.  _“Once there was more.”_

_“Once you were the stronger.”_ The voice responds.  _“The chosen child. Now you are the second. And where once stood two, now stands five.”_

_“I would not change that for the world. They are precious to me.”_

It chuckles.  _“A fool ruled by his heart. But that has given you more strength than those ruled by their heads.”_ A fond word whispers through him quietly, one that has no equivalent in any human language, but it cries out within him, reverberating in his chest. He  _knows_ this language, it pulses through him, through the land. It is the song within all life here. From the drops of water in the great rivers to the trees, to the mountains, to the bare earth and grassy plains. Although others may not hear it, he does. It’s the heartbeat of the land entwined with his, the breath of wind from his own body, the strength of mountains he carries within him, the precious blood of life, water, flowing through his veins. It is both who he is and what has born him. His mother, his father, the earth, and himself. One, yet many.

The voice seems to pull away for a moment, but without opening his eyes, he reaches out and grabs the garment they are wrapped in, stopping them.

_“Father.”_ He says, and it is enough. The wind caresses his cheek, quietly, and then steps back.

_“You are second to her now… but you stand on equal ground. The land has always belonged to_ **_both_  ** _of you. My children. You have born much on your shoulders. You carry it well.”_

That is the equivalent of love and pride from this voice, and Christopher lets go of their garment, and they pull away to leave.

And then instead, this voice, the spirit of the wind, rushes through him, filling him with strength and love and pride. In the distance, he feels his sister feel it as well, sitting in her cabin on Mt. Hood, reading a book, Anubis’s head resting in her lap while Nadia and Tamar leap through the living room. She looks up at the setting sun through the forest light as it begins to sink below the Coast Range, and he hears her voice distantly.

“What are you doing, brother?”

But her tone is calm, and she slowly fades from his vision. The sun has already set behind the mountains here, a faint grey light growing darker setting in over the desert.

The wind is gone now. The breeze is quiet to him, and he sits for a few moments, opening his eyes.

He is about to rise when another strong voice, neither male nor female again, yet different than the first, speaks to him.

_“Wait, my son.”_

He pauses, and settles himself back to the earth as he closes his eyes, his mind prepared to listen for what they have to say, but then it is as though they retreat.

He is confused until a voice, this one well known to him, speaks. A man’s voice this time.

_“You have done well.”_

His eyes snap open, his voice half forming the man’s name before it fades from his throat. Rosa has told him sometimes he is with him, and he knows when the air feels a certain way that he is standing there beside him, despite not seeing him. But in this moment, the only thing that fills his heart is a longing to  _see_ more than he does, so his words can have more meaning to them.

But that sight is not given, and they both know neither can linger here long.

So he speaks simply.

_“I have missed you, Hinmatóowyalahtq̓it.”_

There’s a quiet laugh, a familiar clasp of his shoulders, and then familiar words of the man the Union Army called Joseph are spoken to him. He lets those words sink deep into his soul, filling him with a satisfaction that little else can bring, a happiness and longing entwined. His head bows down slightly as he listens, and there is a slight laugh.

Chris may be in some ways older than him, for the land granted him life in 1806, but he feels like a child in comparison. In many ways, he still is a child. He always will be. Hearing Hinmatóowyalahtq̓it speak to him, knowing he is there… that is enough for now.

He lifts his head and opens his eyes slowly, and perhaps it's his imagination, but for a moment he swears he sees the outline of him against the darkening night sky, a fond look in his eyes.

And then he is gone, and the first stars begin to emerge in the sky. Christopher gazes up at them, and then breaks the silence with what can only be described as a joyous cry. He gets up on his feet, laughing and singing, and the wind flows around him, the water singing his song of joy with him.

He is  _Oregon_ , the land of pioneers, of opportunity. The land of the Umatilla, Wasco, and the Nez Perce. Trees, mountains, deserts, and the mighty Columbia and Snake. They are him, and he is them.

He grins at the sky as he brings himself to a stop, arms outstretched, and the wind rushes through him once more. He closes his eyes and allows it to take from him what he can give it. Despite the hour of the day, and the long drive he has ahead of him back to his house, he has never felt more refreshed.

The wind dies down, and he opens his eyes. Slowly, the feelings fade. The world returns to normal around him, and the breeze only carries the whispers of voices unknown to him. Ghosts, perhaps, or spirits, or simply conversations from those still living. He allows them to fade from his mind, always present in some ways, but now forming a quiet sound in the back of his mind, no stronger than a hum.

He sighs, and gazes out for a while longer before turning to head home. But right as he does, a slightly stronger breeze picks up, a voice he knows as well as his own speaking to him.

_What are you doing, Chris?_

He chuckles on the breeze, knowing she hears it. “You wouldn’t understand, Beaver-ly.”

Beverly’s voice has a laugh of its own within it.  _Try me, Chrissie Lou._

He laughs, and quietly whispers to the wind, knowing his words carry to his sister, and knowing she listens is a comfort to him as he walks back towards his truck, ready to head to his house.

After all, he is already  _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to talk more about OCs with me, contact me over at hipsofsteel.tumblr.com


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